


Dolorosa: Make Her Pay

by asterCrash



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dom/sub, F/F, Mind Games, Power Play, pale torture porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-12 05:10:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4466636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asterCrash/pseuds/asterCrash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Dolorosa escaped the brooding caverns, raised a mutant troll in the wilderness, and organized a wildly successful interplanetary rebellion against the Condesce— and now some pathetically arrogant little pirate queen thinks she's got any chance of being in charge, just because Porrim's in chains and Aranea's in the captain's chair.<br/>Or: in which the Dolorosa uses Mindfang against every highblood who sent her son to the flogging jut.</p><p>-Extra scenes added 19/09/2015</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [roachpatrol](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roachpatrol/gifts).



“The archeradicator is dead.”

You're in your sewing chair when she returns. The name is something of a joke to you, you've long since replaced sewing with weaving and 'throne' would be a more fitting descriptor than 'chair'. Your little pet would likely still call the seat her own, and it's true you rarely let the crew see you in it, though day by day you turn more of them to your cause. On your suggestion Mindfang graciously repainted your ship to match its new name and purpose. The Red Vengeance has been your home for two sweeps now and its captain your lover and willing pawn for nearly as long. She still occasionally attempts to manipul8 you into reversing the power dynamic but you've mostly broken her of the habit. If she pleases you she gets what she wants, what she needs of you. Some nights you even let her be on top, partly for the novelty and mostly to keep that ego of hers intact.

"Good pet," you tell her because it's true, you couldn't have asked for a more pliant sword with which to strike back against the cowering highbloods who murdered the troll you raised from a wiggler. "Come to me, Mindfang." She knows she's done well when you call her by her silly pirate name, knows you're pleased enough to indulge her. She drops to her knees between your legs wordlessly and you're giddy with how easy it was to teach her that trick. You half believe the reason she was so easy to turn is that her domineering personality is all bluster to cover a very deep and abiding need to be dominated herself. You hardly mind indulging her on that front. After so many sweeps on the run, and with a wiggler clinging to your leg every step of the way, you haven't had much time for some of your favourite hobbies. It is also to your liking that this one bends and breaks underneath you like none of the women you shared the brooding caverns with ever did. Perhaps you're simply more spiteful these days.

She waits on your instruction before you, face bright as a blueberry and breathing hard just at the thought of what you might do to her. You stroke her hair and circle the base of her horns with your fingers, delicate, gentle, so the anticipation of pain to come will multiply eightfold the inevitable sting of your hand on her cheek. "Good pet," you tell her once more, stretching the tenderness out a while longer so you can appreciate just how loyal she has truly proven.

“You’ve been writing nasty things about me in your diary again.” She jerks up at the change in your tone. You almost wish you had slapped her, she reacted with such force. “You really should stop trying to hide it as well. I know you inside and out, Aranea, and I would know what you scribbled between those covers even if I were completely blind. Your sock drawer may be comparatively more secure from me than your mind, but at that point it’s a little redundant, don’t you think?” The look of shame on her face is nothing but arousing to you. How far has she fallen since you first boarded this ship? Hauled senseless from your original imprisoner, like cargo, then brought to the captain to serve her needs before the very troll who had held you captive for so many perigrees out on the open seas. The two of them did, however, fall for the classic highblood blunder, mistaking “prisoner” for “slave” and mistaking “bound” for “powerless”. You know a little something about breaking chains. After all, you had an excellent teacher.

 _It was short work to endear yourself to the captain. She thought she could prod your mind gently and force you to her will. She thought you’d forget where your own desires ended and her influences began. Perhaps her taste for self-flattery was her undoing, thinking it would be impossible for you not to fall in love with her. Perhaps she simply thought love would mean admiration. You loved Kankri that way. Your feelings for Aranea are very different. In the perigree that came it was practically a game of yours. Pretending to be scandalised by her advances, playing shy and flustered, luring her in closer, waiting for her to pity you ever so softly, as you knew her little bloodpusher would surely drag her kicking and screaming into your waiting arms._

You undo the buttons of your skirt, slowly, one at a time. Her eyes are fixed on your fingers, fang digging into her lip as you deftly part the fabric and free the exposed tip your bulge to her waiting lips. With ritual precision she sticks her tongue out to greet your length, just as you’ve trained her. She knows the punishment for failing you.

_When you judged her sufficiently ready the trap snapped shut. It was a wet night out at sea and fog blanketed the ship thickly enough to cloud even one’s mind. You calmy applied the violet paint to your nails, reminding yourself of better days spent in the brooding caverns, dressing up for an eagerly anticipated date doomed to disappoint you. On your instructions a fellow slave struck you once, hard, on the cheek. You needed bruising, and then a cut from a blunt knife, to let the jade of your blood seep down your face, where she would see it. You wandered out into the darkness with the corpse of a wiggler who’d not lasted the cold turn, fitting that the sacrifice of another child should begin your path to bloody vengeance on those who stole yours._

_You positioned yourself within earshot of the captain’s quarters and, with as much melodrama as you could muster, let out a scream and threw the body overboard, listening for the splash down into the waves. When Aranea found you, lying on the deck, your face a mess and what looked to be violet blood beneath your claws she could only jump to the conclusion you’d prepared her for. Her kismesis was jealous of her matesprit and therefore she would have no choice but to do away with him. She took you to her recuperacoon the day that followed and held you while you pretended to sleep._

You coil your hand in the rat’s-nest of her hair and pull her forward, unsheathing into her lips as you go. She knows well enough now not to press forward of her own initiative, only to let you position her to your liking. You hold her in place for a few seconds longer, letting yourself unfurl in the damp, warm enclosure of her mouth, before you feel you can trust her not to pull back on instinct. Your pet knows the command ‘stay’.

_Thereafter you were to remain in her quarters or be on the deck only when she could accompany you. Given the captain held all her strategy meetings in her quarters, this provided you all the information you needed. The position of her entire fleet and every shred of intelligence her network of spies could gather. You watched on a map table as the Gamblingnants surrounded Dualscar’s hunting party, you watched one by one as ships were removed from the board or repositioned. Then, finally, your pet came home smelling of woodsmoke and threw the model of Dualscar’s whaler clean out the porthole. You took her there on the map table, gave yourself to her, in body if not in mind. She screamed your name in a way no one had in a dozen sweeps. You marked one name off a list._

You take the lapels of your pet’s jacket in your fingers and pull the material tight against her neck, so she can feel your grip on her even if you lay a finger on the sensitive nape of her neck. You complain as you hold her in position, about how hard it will be for you to work the indigo bloodstains out of the material, chide her for her thoughtlessness, how little she cares about all the efforts you go to for her sake. With your bulge filling her mouth she has little room to reply in her defence.

_The perigrees stretched on from there. You began to instruct her in private, advising her of the likely repercussions of her murder of the Orphaner. You explained how you came to be in slavery. You told her of your son. She’d heard the legends of the Signless, whispers across the planet of a hope for a better future. You told her of the man who made the legend something more. She was happy to imagine herself the hated enemy of all who would avenge Dualscar’s demise. You think she saw something romantic in the struggle, thought it her own and never deigned to check the strings holding her up._

You tire eventually of the sight of the bloodstains coating her outfit, cobalt and indigo may blend together nicely but the splotchy patterning of it does nothing to complement the smooth sweeping lines you’ve painstakingly embroidered for her. You lift Aranea off your bulge and order her to strip. She tries to complain but a glare from you is all it takes to silence her. She knows this is one of your rules. Clothing is an elegant thing for elegant creatures, not base dirt noodles like herself. She is fit to wear clothes only so long as you allow it and at any time that is a privilege you can revoke. You’ve lost count of the times she’s attended her duties as a captain with only her jacket for modesty. The crew may believe it simply a sign of her usual arrogance, showing off her body as if to imply she had being pailing her cabin troll but a moment before, when in reality you’d simply been forcing her to scrub the floor of your cabin with her bare ass in the air. She always makes an effort when appearing so immodestly before her crew to keep her front towards them, lest they see the bright blue hand prints covering her rear.

 _More and more you made her your creature. You never gave her direct orders at first, simply provided observations that would lead her to a singular course of action. Each time she came to what she thought was an independent decision under your influence you rewarded her with brazen advances, entirely improper for a slave girl she kept for company. You loved the way she would squeal if you really caught her by surprise, with a well positioned hand just where she wasn’t expecting you._

You watch in silence as she lets her jacket drop to the ground. You chastise her every time for letting her clothes crumple but she never learns, so eager she is to be exposed to your eyes. You motion with a single finger for her to turn. She knows exactly what you can do with just this finger. As she shimmies her way out of her pantaloons you’re pleased to see the marks you’ve left on her are yet to heal entirely. The formerly bright blue mark has faded to an angry purple with time, the shape of your hand no longer quite so distinct but the origin of the bruise is still undeniable. This one was for pleasure.

 _To punish her required an unconventional approach. For every time she distracted herself from her true purpose, from the eradication of_ your _enemies, you would pull her back from her work. You would rub the aches from her body, aches so easy to have placed there yourself when she slept beside you defenceless. You would remind her how exhausted she was. You coddled her, like you did for Kankri before he was troll enough to turn down your attentions in favour of his mission. Mindfang responded much the same. She hated feeling weak, feeling cared for. You’re certain there isn’t a pale bone in her entire body from how she resented your affections. She’d attack you in lust for every gentle touch and you’d rebuff every advance. After all, she looked ever so tired and you’d be loathe to ask of her the exercise. Sometimes you couldn’t stop her, and she’d take what she wanted, either with her powers or more conventional means, but you never made it satisfying for her. It seems only you enjoy fucking a puppet, though perhaps simply because she lacks the talent to make hers dance._

She kicks her boots off to the side, completely undressed now. You’ll forgive her forgetting to bend over while her rear still faced towards you (or more accurately you’ll punish her later), instead following with the practiced movements you’ve instilled in her. She holds your gaze for the allotted period of time, letting you take in the voluptuous curves of her body. You know she was want to show off her cleavage before you’d trained her, perhaps she thought it a display of dominance, but now having your eyes rove over her body only makes her shiver. Having suffered your staring sufficiently she sinks to her knees, slowly, methodically. She holds that position for a second longer, a second you’d built in to her routine to let her contemplate the next step, the further debasement. She drops onto her hands, now on all fours before you, like a beast, your pet, and crawls back to you, to your open legs and your waiting bulge. 

_It was going quite well until your knight arrived. You’d taken to sitting in your pet’s lap while she played at pirate queen. Captains of the Gamblignants would come before her in supplication, presenting reports on their operations and tributes for sailing the waters she kept clear of interfering imperial forces. She thought you jewellery, resplendent in jade embroidery of your own making, draped across her throne like the greatest treasure she’d ever unearthed. But from where you were sitting every pirate that bowed to her bowed to you first and you were perfectly within reach to toy with her, needle her to the decisions you saw fit. You left her to rule her little queendom when the decision was of no importance or when you were simply too bored with the proceedings to listen. You’d drifted into fantasy and imagined yourself in a very different court, atop a different throne, and kneeling before you was an empress brought low rather than half-drowned midbloods in service to a petty tyrant of the waves. Only screaming from the above deck snapped you from your reverie._

She shakes her ass as she crawls towards you, a trick you hadn’t taught her. You’re not certain how much of this she actually wants and how much you’ve forced upon her, and frankly you’re a little past caring, but the part of you that isn’t yet completely burnt black with revenge feels some relief at the display. It makes it that much easier to guide her face back into your lap. You curl a claw around her ear and rub the pierced lobe gently. It’s a signal she should know well, however rarely used, and it means she’s free to pleasure you however she thinks best. It’s a reward for good behaviour. 

_You arrived on deck to find a legislacerator garbed in red and teal, backed by what must have been her lusus. The beast was magnificent. You’re certain the rider must have hatched after you left the caverns, you would have certainly remembered a lusus as impressive as the mighty dragon she’d parked on the forecastle. She’d held a silver necklace aloft and you bellowed out to all hands that they stay their arms. Perhaps they had questioned your authority, but they’d all seen you atop their leader and knew a chain of command ended with the troll pailing the troll at the top of the food chain, they held to your orders. You looked again to the necklace, bearing a mark growing in significance, one you’d seen for the first time as hot iron burned bright red with the anger of your Kankri. The mark used to whisper his name when to speak of the Sufferer would mean a certain culling. A sign for the Signless._

She draws her tongue in long luxuriously strokes along the opening of your nook, lapping at the jade slurry already trickling out, unmindful of the way your bulge curls along the skin of her face, trailing that same slurry as it goes, painting her in your colours. The jade of your slurry and the cobalt of her blush make an interesting contrast to the burnt red of her eye, her lost vision eightfold a shame, however necessary. You’re loathe to blunt good tools, but a struggle for dominance was always going to result in some loss. She should be grateful you left her the arm she dared to strike you with. She should be grateful you left her alive.

_You’d convened in the hastily vacated captain’s chambers. Mindfang was fuming at your apparent insubordination in halting her men before they pincushioned your guest. The guest, addressing herself as Redglare, was only smiling, broad and with great apparent humour at your lover’s tantrum. You’d hushed Mindfang with firm hands soothing the tension in her shoulders, exactly the kind of tension to build up if one slept in an uncomfortable position, and seated her in her throne, while Redglare simply remained standing._

_“Such hospitality,” she’d cackled “really know how to make a troll feel welcome there, Marquise.” Mindfang had grit her teeth and growled at that. You’d been ensuring that she was far too occupied for a proper black fling since Dualscar, as caliginously cooped up as she was you’re surprised she didn’t tackle the first pretty thing to talk back to her. Any other time you’d put your attention on your pet, make the most of the opportunity to manipulate her further into your clutches, but this was a situation that called for you at your fullest, not the you Aranea thought you were._

_“I apologise for the mess, Legislacerator, we were just having something of a gathering. To what do we owe the pleasure?” If Mindfang was shocked that you spoke for her you couldn’t see, positioned behind her throne as you were._

_“The pleasure is all mine_ Dolorosa _.” She’d let that hang in the air. It was a name you’d not been called since the Signless became the Sufferer and you became a slave. “Word of your actions is spreading, or rather, word of the Marquise’s actions. It didn’t take too much work to figure out the real mastermind, however,” you’d felt Aranea tense up at that, still labouring under the misapprehension that she was in control, “and since you seem to be on the path to your vengeance I figured it was time to show my true colours.” She gestured down to her robes, presumably her own teal bordering a sea of red. Kankri’s red._

_You’d worked your thumbs deep into Aranea’s shoulders, trying to keep her as pacified as possible while you got the important work done. “You are prepared to betray the courtblock for a dead prophet?”_

_“The Sufferer may no longer be among us but his Disciple lives on, and from your actions so far it hardly seems like you intend to go quietly.” She had laughed as if she wasn’t talking about systematically wiping out every highblood who watched your child die. “From my perspective, a murder has been committed, and as a Legislacerator I am duly obligated to ensure that all those responsible are suitably punished.” She’d let all of her teeth show at that, and the red glint of her lenses could not have been more fearsome. “I humbly submit to your guidance," The look she had gave you showed nothing resembling humility, but the steadiness of her voice carried the strength of her sincerity._

_You’d stepped forth from behind Mindfang’s throne and she’d had the decency to stay put while you swore in Latula Pyrope as the red blade of the rebellion. She’d knelt before you and accepted your grip on her horns, firm and uncompromising and everything you would need to bring the Condesce back from the depths of space, free your Psiionic and burn this planet to the ground. She departed after you’d given her your orders, off to recruit the army you would need, to sow the seeds of rebellion across the land. To turn the legend of the Sufferer into the rallying cry against all that is wrong with this world. Mindfang was not pleased, to say the least._

Aranea takes your bulge in her mouth, delicately, lovingly. She lets the tip twine with her tongue and snake its way further into her mouth. You take pride in the trust you have in your pet, that your captive highblood would never dare let her fangs graze your length, even in a moment of carelessness. She makes up for the necessary caution with her enthusiasm, that strong, dextrous tongue she’s so fond of wagging at last finds its true purpose in your bulge. By this point your slurry must be filling her mouth, and the rippling sensation of her throat working around you only adds to the pleasure. You continue stroking her ear, telling her how good she’s being for you, how you’re so glad she’s being well behaved. She practically coos around your length, eyes so full of self-indulgent pride. You have no idea how she managed to maintain that ego of hers without you.

_Her tantrum lasted weeks. You bore through with it._

_She’d taken to insulting you whenever she was in your cabin, reminding you that you were just a slave, that you should know your place, that she owned you. You offered her little to work with, simply asking whether she felt tired, whether she needed to sit down, asking if you could make her something to eat. Her fury grew with your every failure to play into her caliginous wants, but you never reacted. She’d use her powers endlessly, using your mouth to parrot the words she wanted to hear, making you make love to her. She even forced you to take her by force once, convinced perhaps that provided she got you started you’d follow through and let her live out her rape fantasy, but the second she let her control slip you simply extracted yourself and offered her tea._

_Your patience ended on the day she finally struck you. The abuse, the manipulation, the rants, they’d all been a product of her twisted lust for you. They’d been a natural product of her fear of losing control, of letting you take the lead. Even when she’d wanted you on top it had simply been to try and force an admission from you, whether tacit or not, that you wanted to dominate her. This was different. This was unacceptable._

_You think she knew it from the second she’d struck you just how grave a mistake she’d made. She stammered apologies, tried to reason that you’d just been too frustrating, but the damage was done. She’d shown that she no longer wanted you, instead she wanted your suffering. There is only one Sufferer and you are not and never will be him. You do not suffer. You get even._

But your pet has been faithful; one could even say loving. She worships you, in her own way, like the masses once worshipped your son. She hangs off your every word like adoring crowds did for him. You know in your heart you hardly feel any enmity for the creature below you. Kankri always said you should pity the highbloods as well, for they too are bound to the chains of the hemospectrum. You wish you still had faith in his message, but hearing his death cry broke something in you you’re not sure can ever be mended. You don’t hate your pet, but it’s so very easy to imagine another in her place. The hook and fork of her horns replaced with smooth long arcs. Blue blood changed out for fuchsia. Hair that flows out from between your legs and in front of you like a river of ragged black. Maybe when the Condesce kneels before you in person you’ll have her shorn. The fantasy comes so naturally. You fist your claws in the hair in front of you, forcing the fuschia-blooded bitch down onto your length. You want her to choke on you. You want legends to be told of _her_ suffering.

You finish in Aranea’s mouth and she pulls back to retch your material onto the floor. Your pet monster is so pitiful with cerulean tears stinging at her eyes and jade slurry running down her chin. You lift her up for a kiss and claim her, though she struggles with herself she can’t help but be sucked into you. 

_Your light was brilliant, not dimmed at all by the extended period without feeding. You’d sworn off the blood of the unwilling at Kankri’s request, and with your supply of candy red gone your appetite had vanished entirely. Until your would-be master had dared to strike you. Suddenly lectures of consent and sovereignty of bodily fluids had seemed very distant and cool cobalt had seemed very near. She’d been paralysed before you, unable to escape the siren song of your luminescence. The empty look in her eyes had quickly been replaced by a widening fear, as the lamplight of your eyes coated your irises, leaving only two pools of endless yellow. She’d tried to turn away, fumbled desperately for self control as you had stalked forward, but transfixed as she was she could only stand still while her sensitive vision eightfold magnified your glare to blinding. You had watched dispassionately, as the beauty of her segmented sclera burnt red and blue tears welled at the corner of her eyes. They were the first of her fluids you tasted._

With a strength you’d once hidden from her for so many perigrees you hoist your pet from the floor below you and up into your lap. The weight there is a reassurance, like some misers cling to their riches you feel comfort and satisfaction in the physical sensation of holding the most useful tool you could hope to possess. Just a tool, but of the finest craftsmanship. Ego worked smoothly into confidence, arrogance entwined with command presence. Under you, she guides a silent navy across Alternia’s oceans, and some day perhaps she will command a fleet between the stars dragging a red banner in their wake. But every vein of useful mineral has its faults. Your Mindfang may be loyal in her cringing, servile way, but she holds within her sufficient backbone for treachery, and the time has come to show her that even the slightest turn against you will lead to her misery.

“I would like to hear a story now, pet.” Her eye glistens at your words, for she loves her stories. “It is something of a fantasy, complete lies that is to say, but it seems only right the story be told with your own mouth.” There is in fact some Jade still smeared on the corner of her lips. You neglect to clean it up for her, you’re hardly her lusus, after all. Her expression turns to uncertainty, she knows she has displeased you and has felt before the cruel mirth of your sense of humour, yet even now her breast contains hope. It is that hope you need to quash.

From behind your sewing chair you withdraw her journal, emblazoned almost heretically with her own symbol, as if she had any right to the narrative her life has become. She tries to shrink away from the book at its reveal, but within your lap you hold her fast, for there is no escape from this particular of her punishment. “I would like you to read to me, pet,” and you seamlessly fold the book open to the most recent page of her indiscretion, thoughtfully skipping so many pages that have had lines crossed out with cerulean blood. “From here, if you please.”

She settles the book into her hands and reads over her own script, as if disbelieving anyone could be this naive, this thoughtless. “I am a prisoner within my own ship,” she begins, trying to hide how overdramatic her text is with the tone of her voice, but it is far too late for hiding now. She is over-grand by nature, even when subdued, and the full arrogance of her self-pity comes through in the trail of her voice. “Held, in soul if not body, by a fiend of the brightest glow.”

“Oh, you do flatter me so in your text, Mindfang,” the name a mockery now and hopefully clear to her through your tone. “Keep reading, the best of it is yet to come,” you remind her as if she hadn’t penned this tale of woe herself.

“As a seasoned telepath of the highest caliber,” the absolute highest, certainly, for all the good it does her in the glare of your light. “I can say without doubt that she has a means of commanding minds beyond my ability to understand or defend against.” Typical, from a girl who must have learned to take by force before she was taught how to ask nicely, to break down doors instead of checking for a key under the doormat. “And I know that even now she resides in my mind, her golden eyes haunt my steps at every turn and all privacy has been removed from me, save for the scrawled words of this tome.” You laugh aloud at that line and feel her shiver against you in response.

“My favourite part is up next,” you whisper into her neck, tongue slaking your lips before flicking delicately at the oft-abused skin. She still bears bruises from your last intrusion. 

“She has taken from me,” her breath hitches and her recital pauses as you seal your lips over the flesh of throat, your own breath no doubt achingly hot against her jugular. “She has taken from me my blood, and dressed herself in my colour like so much cheap grubsauce.” Your fangs pierce her flesh.

_Her scream is high, but subdued, and certainly not enough for aid to come. You drink deep of the well within her, cerulean pumping along the grooves of your teeth and into your waiting throat. You feel so parched, having been so long without the nourishment. Your glow flares unpredictably against the cabin walls, you believe it would make quite the light show for those with the fortitude to survive your glare. You take from her. You take and take and take and her body crumples against yours, falling into your grip, at long last to do with as you please. And you shall indeed please yourself on her. She has slaked one appetite, barely, but there are so very many more to indulge. You let her fall to the floor below you, down to her hands and knees. You bring a hand to her cheek, radiant and deadly as you must surely appear, and you calm her anger with your touch. She concedes her bite to your caress, giving in to the gesture, accepting you as you force yourself upon her._

_“Good pet,” you tell her because it’s true._

Sated, you gather the ragdolled blueblood before you into your arms, hoisting her off her feet and into your embrace. Her exhaustion is obvious as you place her limp body down on the concupiscent platform. It almost feels wrong to take advantage of that weakness for your own pleasure. Almost.

“Now that you’ve had your reward, pet, it’s time for your punishment.” You lift a lock of her hair from where it fell over her ruined eye. Even though it can no longer see, it can still show fear.

“Please, Porrim, I promise I won’t do it again, you don’t have to—”

“Shush, darling. You’ve misbehaved and now you’re going to have to pay the price. Roll over.”

She whines high in the back of her throat but she doesn’t dare disobey you further. She turns over and lies face down on the platform, her bare back and shoulders facing up towards you and her head resting on the pillow. You grip her firmly by the shoulders and straddle her butt, making sure she can feel the weight of you pressing into her. At first you simply run your hands down her back, tracing over the salt-dried skin and its many scars and pocks. No new ones on the back today, though she seems to have accrued some minor lacerations to her arms and front. You’ll handle them later, for now her neck and shoulders deserves your full attention. You retrieve your special oil from its resting place beside the concupiscent platform, a blend you’d had to mix yourself after finding nothing similar in any of the ports you’d visited. The heady aroma of lavender, vanilla and some assorted spices seeps out into the room as you remove the cork, you’re certain Aranea can smell it already from her position beneath, tension building up in anticipation of receiving her just desserts.

“It’s okay, really, you don’t need—”

“I said shush, Aranea, you’re staying put until this is over.”

You drizzle some of the concoction over her shoulders in the shape of your symbol, you never miss an opportunity to mark her as yours and this particular ritual should be no different. She draws a breath in sharply as the cold fluid hits her, but you feel her let it out slowly beneath, like a good pet. A few light swipes of your hands spreads the oil out and around, your palms gliding easily over the surface of her skin while properly lubricated. Once in motion the oil begins to warm, the blueblood beneath you (ever beneath you) lets out a little shudder as your caresses grow deeper, searching out all the kinks and knots of her muscles. When you locate one you work diligently, pressing in with firmer and firmer strokes until you feel the tension give and a sigh releases from beneath you. She’s beginning to relax into the punishment now, slowly resigning herself to her fate.

“Please, Porr— _Mistress_ , I really don’t need any more I can—”

“Aranea Serket if I hear one more word out of you before we’re done I will pap you into the next perigree, now for the love of Gl'bgolyb’s leftmost tentacle, _shoosh_ ”

You squeeze more of your massage oil onto the back of her thorax and bend in closer. Resting your palms onto her supple scarred flesh you begin the broader strokes of the effleurage, techniques not well known outside of the brooding caverns, a service highly prized by some yet truly loathed by your pet. She grits her teeth as you untangle her, unmake her with the pressure and rotation of your hands, delicate and dangerous tools though they are, turned now purely to the purpose of making your lover relax.

"You want me," you whisper harsh and hot in her ear.  
"Yes," she moans beneath you.  
"You need me."  
"Yes, Porrim, yes."  
"You love me?"  
"I do, oh gods, I do."  
"Say it."  
"I love you, I love you, I can't live without you."  
“Then what do you call me?”  
“My—”  
“Say it.”  
“My—”  
“Say it for me, Aranea.”  
“My Empress.”  
“Good pet.”


	2. Chapter 2

You struggle against the mast but the lashings binding your hands together hold you tight against the salt-stained wood. You press your boot into the base to give yourself some more leverage but the more you tug at the ropes the faster they hold you. You continue struggling regardless, rather to tear at your own hands like a wild animal than to suffer this indignity a second longer. The jeerings from your onlookers grow louder the more you pull and you spare a second to turn and snarl at the lot of them.

“I’ll get out of this, just you wait! I’m the captain, not her, you work for ME!” Their laughter only increases with your vitriol, faces you once knew like the back of your hand now twisted into alien visages of mockery. You reach out to lash their minds into submission but find their heads too empty to control, or yours simply too clouded to hold on. Then, from out of the crowd, she stalks forth, radiant in the literal way and with those painful yellow eyes staring hollowly straight through your burnt out retina, even through its patch. Her laughter chills you to the bone. How long you had wanted to make her laugh, to make her smile for you. You only wanted to love her, but it seems her icy heart can love only those who suffer. And right now your life is nothing but suffering.

She’s graceful beyond her years as she sweeps your foot out from beneath you. With your hands still tied to the mast you can only tumble forward into the hard wood and for a moment everything is colours and mayhem while you fall out of and back into your thinkpan. You try to stagger to your feet, loathe to give her any more advantage than she can take from you by force, but with her blinding speed she’s already behind you, hips flush up against your ass, unsheathed bulge worming its way towards you through the flimsy cloth protecting your sex from her assault. She’s so much larger than you expected and your nook clenches at the memory. She reaches around to roughly grope your rumblepheres through your jacket, squeezes them painfully to show off your girth to the crowd, raising a cheer from the sea-washed scoundrels you thought you could trust not to knife you in the back. She pulls even harder at you, hooks the leather of your coat into her claws and tugs it roughly apart, the audible tear somehow echoes above the rabble and then the cold of the sea air is on your bare skin. You try to lean in against the mast, try to recover some dignity and hide yourself from the onlookers but soft hands cup your tits and hoist you back up onto display.

“I’ll have to fix that tear you know,” she whispers in your ear, breath like the hot breeze of a desert oasis, before she raises in volume to address her audience, “just like I have to do everything around here!” They cheer her on in a way they never did for you. They believe in her, in her cause, in whatever she wants to do. All they ever believed in before was your coin, and they can see you aren’t controlling the purse strings anymore. One of her hands leaves its meaty purchase to ghost down across your stomach and towards the drawstrings of your trousers. Your nook floods at the touch, it growls within you like a second stomach, hungry for her. Even your sex betrays you, you’re clearly not controlling anything.

Her fingers plunge past your slackened waistband and into your undergarments. A gasp escapes you, loud and wanton and entirely against your will, as she pinches the exposed tip of your bulge before thumbing it back into your sheathe. She holds it there, pressed with the softness of her thumbpad as longer fingers search downward for ripened lips. She touches you gentle, the way you hate, beneath the belt, but makes a show of clutching your tit roughly for the sailors still looking. They’d likely mistake the squirm of your discomfort for one of pleasure, idiots that they are. Only a fool would dare believe the captain could be enjoying such treatment, and it would take a moron to misinterpret the way you press back into her bulge as anything other than simply a shifting of your stance. The moan is a… breathing exercise, yes, good for the lungs.

Your breathing exercise becomes a howl as she enters you with her fingers, rubbing and stretching at your insides, making sure you’re good and ready for the rest of her. She treats you like an animal, making a clinical inspection to see that you’ll suit her needs and nothing more. Your nook gives itself over to her, the beginnings of your pailing stirring inside you and slicking your folds with cerulean lubricant. Satisfied with her inspection, she withdraws from you, eliciting a groan you would never admit to. God you’re so wet. Her claws make short work of your pants and undergarments, freeing yet another sensitive part of your anatomy to the biting sea air. It’s hardly exposed for long, as her bulge slithers like a hissbeast betwixt your legs, curling up as if it could sense and follow the explosion of sensation coming from your loins. The tip of hers reaches the tip of yours, where it’s just poking out of your sheathe. Flicking your sensitive end with her own she draws you out, your struggle for civility and decor no match for your body’s growing, aching need for her. You can’t help it anymore. The rough feel of the rope on your wrists, the weight of her pressed up against your buttocks, the burn of the humiliation of being on display to your entire crew. You need her in you. You beg.

She obliges you in the roughest way possible, drawing back before forcing her bulge into your nook like a wild beast rutting. One hand still tears at your breast from above while another pulls your bulge out of its sheathe faster than you can expand and chokes it with her grip. The pain of it all feels like knives all down your spine, an electric sensation of agony that only serves to make you want it more. You struggle against your bonds, trying to get some freedom, to take control of the situation and make her fuck you harder but you’re just as helpless as you’ve been this entire time. The crowd jeers at you, even when you shut your eyes tight you can still hear the cat calls and whistling as Porrim showboats for the crowd. She whips within you, making a tempest of your insides and setting you to buck wildly under her. The sounds and words that escape you now are beyond your control, somewhere between a scream of pain and a moan of need. Your climax builds up within you, from the tensing of your lower back through to the curling of your toes. You arch back into your tormentor and from the movement of her bulge within you she must be close herself. There’s no bucket to catch yourself in when you release, your genetic material streaming out of you to coat the mast in your cerulean and stain what was salvageable of your leggings. You find new depths of humiliation in the aftermath, pailing on yourself like a pubescent wiggler in front of thirty staring eyes. They bore holes in your spirit, you waste away under that mocking gaze and laughter. The humiliation doesn’t stop from getting worse as you feel her material rush into you from behind, your face losing any remainder of composure as you the visceral pleasure of being filled twists you up inside.

She slaps your ass for good measure as she pulls out and your legs give way beneath you. You fall limp against the mast, unable to hold yourself back from kneeling in your own givings, face pressed into the stickiness coating the wood. In the course of trying to catch your breath some of the cerulean swill gets onto your lips and you can taste your debasement. Whatever hope you might have possessed of righting this situation, she owns you now, she owns all of you and can use you as she sees fit. You might not even mind it so much.

“Bring out the washtub!” She shouts to the crowd, two of your swabbies coming forward with a steaming wooden tub of soapy water and terror takes you anew. Your tormentor wouldn’t dare, not even after that cabaret, she couldn’t possibly be thinking of—

A knife slices the bonds holding your hands and only the arms of your crew holding you up prevents you from falling into your own puddle. You struggle against their grip as you’re dragged towards the tub, strength having all but abandoned you as you try to keep them from removing your coat. They drag you backwards and you have to twist your head to keep an eye on the tub, with the glowing executioner standing behind, waiting for you with her brews and concoctions and smelling of lavender. You scream obscenity at the crew, for all the good it does you, you kick and struggle and pitch from side to side but they hold you tight, a sailor at each arm and each leg fixing you tighter than iron shackles. Their hands may hold your limbs, but as you come to a halt above the tub it’s hers that dunk your head back into the water.

You gasp for air as you surface, sloshing the water as violently as possible in an attempt to spill the contents onto the deck but a firm grip massages your neck and holds your head steady. You scream out that you’d rather be bald than have her do this, but it’s too late, the oil pours from her bottle and into your mane, running cold across your scalp. Hands come up from your neck, running gently over the tips of your ears before reaching into your hair and working the oil into your roots. The lather builds up with the crackle of tiny bubbles, and her smug grin of self-satisfaction above you lets you know this torture is not going to end any time soon. You yank as hard as you can on your left arm, and the second of freedom it buys you is enough to get a good punch in. Teal blood streams down onto you and you taste the glorious black rage of a successful hit, swelling hope of some resistance within you. The hope dies away as quick as it came, the cool steel of Porrim’s blade pressing into your cheek a mockery of the pale touching you despise so. It quiets you, enough for the crew to secure your arm while she stills you.

“Are you going to behave, Mindfang?”

“Fuck you.” The blade presses harder into your cheek, not yet piercing your skin but a very real reminder of what more she could do to you. She stares into your sighted eye and gets the answer she needs.

“Good pet.” A line of pain blossoms across your cheek as she pulls the knife away, letting the edge open you up as she goes. The sticky warm sensation of your blood trickling down your cheek gratifies you enough to make the next few seconds of hair scrubbing tolerable. You behave for her, like she knew you would, regardless of the words coming out of your mouth. Your torture drags on , the crew fading away as the world closes down to only encapsulate the two of you. Her hands occasionally stray from your hair to your cheek, at first wiping the fresh blood away, and then just petting you gently, stealing your fury, your ambition, everything that makes you who you are.

The sensation of being trapped seeps away, until you only feel held, held by her and no one else. She combs through your dripping hair and hums, to herself or you, you can’t tell. It sounds like a lullaby, and serves a similar purpose. There doesn’t seem to be anything more important than laying here, and letting yourself be washed away as she rinses you clean and towels you off. Eventually even the wash tub is gone, and it’s just your head in her lap, you crooning along to her humming while she strokes your horns with soft, clever hands. She switches to a sea shanty your lusus used to sing for you, though it sounds a lot better coming from a trollish throat, and her hands never leave your head, always stroking and calming and quieting you. You find yourself reaching up to stroke her face as well, and one of her hands comes up to hold you in place. She presses you into her. The calming grip suddenly becomes fiercely tight. Your limbs go rigid under her touch. You can’t move, you can’t breathe, you might as well be dead because she’s killed you and there’s no way you can move forward, everything is a day terror that never ends and— 

You gasp for air as your head bursts out of the sopor. You’re in your block, in your recupperacoon, the sunlight streaming in through the cracks of the curtains tells you it’s not even close to evening yet. It was just a daymare, the unreality of it clear, but the emotions still so vivid. Another figure rolls over in the sopor next to you and lazily lifts herself out, a sticky hand papping you on the cheek almost absent mindedly as Porrim shifts to sitting up in the pool.

“Go back to sleep, pet, you look so tired.”

“Yeah,” you mutter, sinking back down into the ‘coon, trying to find a spot that doesn’t make that kink in your back any worse. “Yeah, it was just a dream.”


End file.
